


The Kidnapping of Sherlock Holmes

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, Moriarty's a dick, Not Really Canon Compliant, Sherlock's still a pompous prick, Torture, isn't he normally?, kinda post empty hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5898784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John opened his laptop, typed in his password and went straight to his blog to see how many new followers he had gotten recently. Cup of tea raised to his lips, his computer dinged before he had the chance.<br/>You’ve got mail, Dr Watson.<br/>Time slowed to the rhythm of John’s heart pounding in his ears. The only thing he could register was the faint, faraway sound of his mug crashing to the floor and shattering into pieces. The only thing he could think of was Sherlock. Sherlock was there, on his laptop screen, beaten into a bloody mess. Lying on a filthy mattress that was stained scarlet with his blood, his face showed no trace of the cocky man John knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kidnapping of Sherlock Holmes

John sighed, setting his mug of tea next to his laptop and settling into his chair. The flat was quiet; the only sounds were the gentle ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire attempting to combat the frigid air. The smell of winter was in the air, accompanying the scent of acrid smoke from one of Sherlock’s more recent experiments. The flat was quieter than it had been in months on the account that Sherlock was not in it. He had gone out, accompanied by Mary, to reconnect with his Homeless Network. “Just some food and a fiver is all it takes to bring them around.” He had said, whisking himself out the door with a swish of his coat.   
John opened his laptop, typed in his password and went straight to his blog to see how many new followers he had gotten recently. Cup of tea raised to his lips, his computer dinged before he had the chance.  
You’ve got mail, Dr Watson.  
Time slowed to the rhythm of John’s heart pounding in his ears. The only thing he could register was the faint, faraway sound of his mug crashing to the floor and shattering into pieces. The only thing he could think of was Sherlock. Sherlock was there, on his laptop screen, beaten into a bloody mess. Lying on a filthy mattress that was stained scarlet with his blood, his face showed no trace of the cocky man John knew. A thousand thoughts raced through John’s mind  
Kidnapped  
Tortured  
Information?  
Moriarty?  
Mary? Where’s Mary?   
Before he had any time to place these thoughts in a coherent sentence, words appeared at the bottom of his screen:  
TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS AND YOUR FRIEND AND FIANCÉE DIE  
“Okay. I won’t. Just don’t hurt them.” John hadn’t even realised that he had spoken out loud until more words appeared.   
COME TO WAREHOUSE 16 ON MAGPIE ROAD, ALONE AND THERE WON’T BE A NEED TO HURT THEM.  
John closed his laptop without bothering to shut it down properly. He grabbed his coat and hurried downstairs, yelling to Mrs Hudson that he was going out. The door slammed behind him and he hailed a cab, the imprint of Sherlock all bloody and cut still lingering on the back of his eyelids. 

 

Sherlock swam up from the murky depths of unconsciousness that had held his mind captive for the past few hours. His mind went back to recall the events that had led up to these unfortunate circumstances.   
The wind was icy, causing a red blush to appear on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. The door shut faintly behind him as Mary exited. “Right, so I was thinking that we take a cab instead of the tube because even if it’s-“He trailed off as he felt the gun that Mary had pressed into his side. “Mary. What are you doing?”  
“Shut up, Sherlock and get in the car.”  
He kept his hands visible and slowly slid into the grey sedan that had pulled up. He watched the scenery slowly transition from grey to green as they approached the warehouse district on the outskirts of the city. He was escorted out of the vehicle with the gun now pressed to his temple. It would’ve been a comical sight if not for the gravity of the situation; shorter Mary, practically standing on her tiptoes to reach Sherlock’s head, the much taller Sherlock was being a gentleman and stooping slightly to allow for better access to his temple. They entered the gloomy abandoned warehouse, musty air blowing into their faces. A shadowy figure in the centre of the room spoke and Sherlock’s blood ran cold and his vision went black.   
When he awoke next, he was tied to a chair, coarse rope biting into his bare arms and along his torso. Moriarty was crouched in front of him, crooning words of pain and violence. Threating, torture words that strung together in his strange, lilting voice like the world’s most gruesome lullaby. Then his tone changed, his voice became sharp and strident. “Make him bleed, Seb.”   
Sebastian Moran stepped forward, cracked his knuckles and Sherlock’s world dissolved into pain. The pain was like liquid fire singing its way through his veins. It was pain that sent his heart racing and obliterated his mind of all logical thought.   
He bit down harshly on his split lip, forcing himself back to the present and causing fresh blood to cascade down his chin. He commanded himself to focus on his senses and deduce from there. The sharp, metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth. His heavy panting, the low murmuring of the traitor Mary and her accomplice. The stench of his own vomit and the filthy mattress he lay on. The coarse fibres caked with dirt, mingling with fluids that he’d rather not think about.  
Sherlock sat up, a painful groan emitting from his chest. He was clad only in a discoloured, formerly white vest and grubby trousers. The rest of his clothes had obviously been shed for more access to his skin. He felt around his face and body, doing his best to assess the damage that had been done to him. A split lip, badly bruised jaw and possibly fractured cheekbone and a rather impressive black eye. He had multiple cuts along his hairline and above his eye, causing blood to run into and over his delicate features. Wincing, he ran a hand over his torso. Three broken ribs and possible internal bleeding. In addition to all of these, there were also red and inflamed burns on his arms caused by the rough rope. All of these had been caused by multiple and repeated beatings over the course of a few hours. He stiffened and slowly slid until his back was against the wall as he heard footsteps approaching.   
“Well, well, well. Dear me, Mr Holmes, you seem to have gotten yourself into a spot of trouble.” Moriarty said in a honeyed voice, dragging one finger down Sherlock’s cheek and examining the dried blood that had flaked off on to his finger. Mary, hovering in the background, seemed to display no emotion. “Hate to ask the obvious questions, Jim. But what exactly are your motives for doing this? You profited from my fake death, but after the evidence that uncovered Richard Brook as a figment of your imagination, you were locked up in a psychiatric ward. You eventually got out and now you’re on a rampage. Now obviously there are a wide range of reasons for you to want to kidnap and torture me but why now? And why would Mary ever agree to help you?”  
“Well you see, Sherlock. This little flash drive here in my hand holds the key to Ms Morstan’s past. I guaranteed all of her dirty little secrets would be spilled if she refused to help me. The same thing will happen if she tries or succeeds in killing me. I’ve sent a message out to poor, little John and when he gets here……….well then the fun will really begin. As for my motive, everyone needs something in their life to look forward to. Mine just happens to be the demise of the great martyr Sherlock Holmes. As the saying goes, ‘The tyrant dies and his rule is over. A martyr dies and his rule begins.’ But I haven’t died, and my rule over everyone will soon begin.” All of this was said in his strange, singsong voice that seemed to have no set pitch or accent.   
Gravel crunched outside as a car drove up and drove away. The doors rattled and John’s voice, hoarse and strained, rang out, “Hello? Is anyone in there?”   
“Care to let our guest in, Mary?” Moriarty’s voice was excited and he had a maniacal grin on his face as he stood up and dragged a chair to the centre of the room, the legs screeching on the cement floor. Sherlock staggered to his feet, using the wall for balance to see John’s reaction.  
“Mary! Thank God you’re alright.” John pulled Mary into a tight hug, burying his face into the crook of her neck. When she didn’t react and only stood there stiffly, he noticed something was wrong and pulled away. “Mary? Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”  
“John. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Her voice was brittle as she pulled out her gun and aimed it at his chest.   
“Mary. What are you doing?”  
“He made me do it. Please know that I never wanted to hurt you.”  
“Who made you do what? Talk to me Mary!”  
“Moriarty.” The word was whispered as though saying it too loud would invoke his wrath.   
“Hello, John.” Moriarty strolled casually over to the couple. “It’s been a long time. But absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. Now shall we get this party started? Mary, bring John.”  
Moriarty led them, with an elated bounce in his step, to the grubby wall against which Sherlock lay.   
“Sherlock! What have they done to you?”  
“Well, John. I think it’s rather obvious what has been done to me.”  
“Yes, yes. We can deal with all the pleasantries later.” Jim was impatient, wanting to get on with all the fun that he had planned out. “But for now, Sherlock, there’s something I want you to do for me.”  
“And what would that be, Jim? What could I possibly do that may appease your vengeful mind?” Sherlock was talking as loud as his strained vocal chords would let him.   
“Well,” Moriarty said, crouching down in front of Sherlock once more, “You’re going to take this knife and slowly drag it along John’s body until he breaks, then you’re going to slit his throat and stare into his eyes as the life drains out of them.”  
“Why would I do that?”  
“Because, my dear boy, you don’t have a choice. Either you do it quickly and with relative pain, or I do it and make him wish that the sweet embrace of death would claim him. So, who will it be? You or me?”  
Sherlock’s voice was brittle as he made his decision, “Me.”  
“Excellent!” Moriarty jumped up and dragged John, who was still standing in mute shock, over to the chair in the middle of the room. He roughly pushed John into it and busied himself with wrapping and knotting the ropes around him. “Mary, bring Sherlock.”  
Mary bent down and lifted one arm of the lanky, wavering man over her shoulder; she had placed the gun in its holster after John had been secured to the chair. Moriarty stepped up to John and casually ripped apart John’s shirt, buttons flying everywhere and pattering down on to the floor. He then sauntered alongside Sherlock and placed a knife in his hand. He lifted on to his toes and whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “Now go over to your friend and cut him.”  
“No.” Sherlock was choking back tears. He couldn’t do this; he couldn’t hurt the only person that had ever truly understood him.   
“I don’t think you understand, Sherlock. Do it now or I will hurt John so badly that he will be begging someone, anyone to kill him and release him from the Hell on earth that I will create for him. Or I can call Sebastian to come back here and do things to John that you and I can’t even imagine. Now. I’m going to say this once more; DO IT.”   
Sherlock walked forward on shaky legs. With a lump in his throat and a knife in his hand, he stood in front of his best friend and prepared himself.  
“It’s alright Sherlock, just do it.” John’s tone betrayed no emotion but the waver in his voice and the unshed tears in his eyes spoke volumes. Sherlock leaned in close and whispered, “I’m so sorry, John. Forgive me.” He looked up to see John nod almost imperceptibly. With his crime forgiven, Sherlock lifted his wobbling hand and slowly drew the blade across John’s throat. Crimson blood, brighter than he thought it would be, spilled out from the gash; covering Sherlock’s hand in a warm, sticky wetness. He fell to his knees in front of John’s now lax body and sobbed into his dead friend’s lifeless body. He was whimpering words of apology that John would never hear; in between gulping breaths of air.   
“Well, now isn’t that a shame. Mary, dispose of him.”  
There was a bang; and then the world was silent and black


End file.
